Isaac is in his late twenties. Like me. How dare she? Is it the drink talking? Time to declare yourself, Grey.
From: Christian Grey Subject: Careful… Date: June 1 2011 21:45 EST To: Anastasia Steele This is not something I wish to discuss via e-mail. How many Cosmopolitans are you going to drink? Christian Grey CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
She studies her phone, sits up suddenly, and looks around the room. Showtime, Grey. I deposit ten bucks on the counter and saunter over to them. Our eyes meet. She blanches—shocked, I think—and I don’t know how she’ll greet me, or how I’ll contain my temper if she says anything else about Elena. She tucks her hair behind her ears with restless fingers. A sure sign that she’s nervous. “Hi,” she says, her voice strained and high-pitched. “Hi.” I lean down and kiss her cheek. She smells amazing, even if she does tense as my lips brush her skin. She looks lovely; she’s caught some sun, and she’s not wearing a bra. Her breasts are straining against the silky material of her top, but hidden by her long hair. For my eyes only, I hope. And even though she’s mad, I’m glad to see her. I’ve missed her. “Christian, this is my mother, Carla.” Ana gestures to her mom. “Mrs. Adams, I am delighted to meet you.” Her mom’s eyes are all over me. Shit! She’s checking me out. Best ignore it, Grey. After a longer-than-necessary pause, she reaches out to shake my hand. “Christian.” “What are you doing here?” Ana asks, her tone accusatory. “I came to see you, of course. I’m staying in this hotel.” “You’re staying here?” she squeaks. Yes. I can’t quite believe it, either. “Well, yesterday you said you wished I was here.” I’m trying to gauge her reaction. So far there’s been: nervous fidgeting, tensing, an accusatory tone, and a strained